Beneath the Surface
by PiffPoffSplash
Summary: Watson begins to realize there may be more to his relationship with Holmes than he wants to admit.


Title: Beneath the Surface

Rated: K for now but it will go up in future chapters.

A/N: I'm doing it. I'm crossing the slash line. It's not going to be much, at first, but it will be there.

* * *

Watson can't deny it. The truth has attached itself securely to his chest like a parasite. He doesn't drink enough to drown away the feeling and the adrenaline of gambling wears off too quickly to keep his mind from slipping back to Holmes.

Watson pulls his jacket tighter around himself. The streets are near deserted. Few people walk the street at this hour. The majority of the people who do walk the streets at this hour are the ones that respectable members of society tend to avoid. Respectable members of society are also asleep, Watson thinks, and he is not sure where that leaves him.

This is not the first night Watson finds himself thinking what, exactly, he has gotten himself into.

Watson continues on. He really should be making his way home. Lunch had been served only a few hours before he left that afternoon. There is little doubt that Holmes is questioning his whereabouts. It is rare that Watson does not return at a respectable hour; even if it's simply to change into his evening attire.

Watson briefly wonders if Holmes is at all on edge. He imagines the Detective with stiff shoulders, an untouched, lit pipe resting on his knee or forgotten next to the work table. While Watson did not explicitly say where he was going that afternoon, he knew Holmes had figured it out. Worse yet, Watson knew that Holmes knew that Watson had figured out that Holmes knew. It made Watson feel dirty; the kind of dirty that a shower cannot fix. He dared not say it allowed, but he almost felt as thought he was having an affair.

"Get that thought out of your head, old boy," he says to himself.

It was only Holmes, after all. It's a phrase that Watson has been repeating for the better part of two months now. Whenever Holmes stared at him for a second longer then he should have or pulled the Doctor over by his wrist and held on for a second too long, Watson told himself it was only Holmes. Just his flatmate. Just a friend.

The Doctor takes a deep breath. "Just a , just a friend," he repeats quietly. He closes his eyes. There was nothing bonding them together. Watson had not signed a contract binding him to either 221b Baker Street or Holmes for that matter. It's not the first time Watson tells himself that he is a free man. Watson had every right to look for accommodations more suitable to his preference. Holmes would do fine without him.

If Watson was so terribly sure of the fact, then why couldn't he bring himself to tell Holmes where he was going on his afternoon strolls?

"Going out?" Holmes had asked him innocently enough. It was Watson's first clue. Sherlock wasn't the innocent type. No, he was the prying, manipulative type. An innocent question was a direct path to an interrogation.

"Yes," Watson replied. "Thought I would go on a walk."

Holmes glanced out the window. Of course he wasn't going to make it easy. "In this weather?"

"Holmes, we live in England. If I were to wait for a sunny day to take a walk, I fear I would forget how to walk entirely."

Holmes glanced him over. Watson felt himself grow uneasy. He tried not to shift under the Detective's gaze but he knew Holmes was silently calculating signs that Watson could only guess at.

The Doctor gently tapped his palm with his walking stick. "Well, I suppose I should be going."

"In such a light jacket? And those shoes simply won't do for the rain. Why, I have the perfect pair-"

"The ones I loaned you?"

"They were not a gift?" Holmes bit the tip of his pipe. "No matter," Holmes continued. "So, you will not be joining me for tea, then?" The hopeful lining to his question made Watson unable to meet his companion's gaze.

"Another time, old boy. Tomorrow."

Holmes looked away. "Ah, yes. Tomorrow." He cleared his throat. Enjoy your stroll, Doctor."

Watson walked out of 221b Baker Street with guilt resting comfortably on his shoulders. Holmes was good at hiding his emotions but Watson had learned to pick apart the passive features that made up Sherlock Holmes. There was no denying the fact that Holmes was hurt. It was the way his companion would look just above Watson's head instead of looking him in the eyes, the way his right shoulder hunched forward, the way his smile became tight. Sherlock's tone always remained casual but Watson never failed to pick up on the little details, the ones that were so precious to Holmes.

Watson glances in the direction of his home. He almost turns around but decides to continue on. No, Watson can't go home because in the Doctor's very home, probably mixing chemicals that should not be mixed or dissecting a frog and forgetting to clean it up, is the very man that Watson is trying to avoid.

Holmes. It started out simply enough. Watson describes it as an innocent curiosity; surely brought on by years of subconscious medical observation. It was natural, he rationalized, to find such a peculiar person interesting. He did tell Stamford that he would discover just how Holmes figured out personal facts about people, after all. He owed his friend a proper answer. Even if Watson could not figure it out, he would be doing his profession an injustice if he didn't make it a point to study habits of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes is like no man Watson met before. Such a remake can be considered remarkable coming from one that has seen the chaos of war. Though he was injured early on, Watson saw more than enough of the battlefield on the overflowing beds that crowded the medical tents.

Watson has seen men driven mad; broken men, clutching onto sticks as if they were lovers. strong men, crying in their sleep while gripped with Typhoid fever. Watson would lay awake until morning listening to their illogical murmurings, almost thinking that death would be a kinder fate.

Those men were nothing like Holmes. Holmes was a functioning mad; water resting at the brim of a glass but not flowing over. Yes, indeed, it was curiosity that drew Watson to the Detective. Watson silently observed his , looking to see if the water would ever flow over; if the madness ever became too much.

Watson received enough warnings about Holmes to know to keep his distance. The warnings were in Stamford's eyes when Watson expressed interest in meeting Holmes. They were in Stamford's voice when he said, "You don't know Holmes yet." The warnings were plastered on Sherlock's hands upon their introduction. "I work with poison," Holmes had said when he saw Watson staring at the many bandages. Yes, there was little doubt that Holmes was indeed, a queer fellow.

There were further warnings in the way Mrs. Hudson would shake her head when Watson returned home. "He is up to something, that one." She would whisper, slowly looking up the stairs. "Always up to something."

"Don't be silly," Watson would gently counter before retreating into his own room. He knew she was right. Holmes most certainly was up to something. Watson simply preferred to keep his nose out of his flatmates business. Far, far away from his flatmate's business, in fact. Watson soon learned that Holmes would soon make that impossible.

"You mentioned being a Doctor, Watson?" Holmes once asked, only a few weeks after they had moved in together.

"Indeed."

"Very good." He walked into his room. Watson heard some rustling before Holmes emerged. "Then you will know how to properly dispose of this." He shoved a towel into Watson's hands.

"Holmes," his voice was stiff, "Is this a dead bird?"

"Yes, it is." Holmes said.

"Why, exactly, is there a dead bird in our house, Holmes?"

"My dear Doctor, there is a dead bird in our house because you so needlessly insist upon standing in our sitting area with it in your hand. What would the Nanny think if she should walk in?" Holmes shut the door to his room before Watson could respond.

Watson looked at the door in disbelief for a few moments before turning to dispose of the bird. "He's bloody insane."

Watson is not sure when he stopped simply observing. When he became involved in the experiment that he only meant to glance at from a purely scientific viewpoint. He convinced himself it was a fleeting thing. A friendship brought on my necessity and nothing more. Holmes was his flatmate, after all, of course Watson needed to be a little involved in the Detective's life.

Instead of waiting to see if the madness would overtake Holmes, Watson became the barrier that refused to allow Holmes succumb to the darkness that floated in his mind. Watson taps his cane on the ground, irritably. Their relationship was no longer about necessity. Watson doesn't want to think what it was about. Somehow, being 'a little involved' meant joining Holmes when Lestrade called for him, inspecting bodies for signs of poison, finger tips for rust, holding off two men with nothing more than his cane simply because Holmes said he "needs more time." He rarely questions Holmes anymore. He doesn't have to. Somehow Holmes has earned his trust. How? The resulting thoughts are always the same. They make Watson cringe. He dares not give much thought to the conclusions that creep through his head.

Watson did it to himself. Holmes never asked for a provider, if anything, Holmes was more than positive that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. It was Watson that decided Holmes needed to be taken care of. No, Watson never meant to get involved and yet, somehow, he appointed himself the task of making sure Holmes ate a few meals a week and bathed on a somwhat frequent basis.

It was Watson's job to make sure Holmes got a decent amount of fresh air and to break down the detective's door after a week of secluded hibernation. Yes, Holmes had warned him about his 'moods' but Watson grew to find them unbearable. The Doctor was never polite about it anymore. A swift kick to the midsection of the door and it would swing back on its hinges. He would find Holmes laying upon the ground, sometimes on his bed or a couch. His pipe was never more than an arm's reach away.

"Polite society knock, Watson."

"What do you know about polite society?" He stepped over Holmes and walked to the blinds. "It's dark."

"Yes, it's dark. I'm rather fond of the dark. If it were the opposite, I would be sitting here with the curtains drawn; possibly partaking in a morning cup of tea followed by those little sandwiches Mrs. Hudson so tenderly creates in our kitchen. Seeing as that is not the case, my dear Watson, I deeply encourage you to trust that everything is in order, just as it should be."

"It's early evening, Holmes." Watson's voice was strained with tired patience.

A pause. "Is it?" Nothing seemed to baffle the Detective more than time frames.

"It will be dark soo enough." Watson tugged at the curtains to emphasize the fact that they were to stay open.

"Perfect." Holmes said, easily forgetting his confusion. "I take it that you will be joining me for dinner, then?"

"I have plans."

Holmes smiled. "Ah, yes," Holmes said, his voice layered with disbelief. He rolled over so he was facing Gladstone. "Shall we investigate the case of the Doctor's most elusive evening plans?"

Watson didn't turn around for a few moments. He knew Holmes would be looking at him with those amused eyes that made the Doctor's lip twitch. When he felt composed enough, Watson turned to face his companion. "Holmes-"

"Your walking stick, if you don't mind." Holmes said.

Watson eyed Holmes suspiciously. "Why-"

"Watson, I am merely trying to answer your question. Now, if you would like for me to explain why I know you have no plans, I simply ask that you hand me your walking stick." Watson didn't move. Holmes continued. "No matter. The bottom of your walking stick is much more worn at the base then usual. Your time in the service has done you a great justice in making you far too careful to have simply drag such a beautiful item so carelessly on the ground. Thus, I can gather that you have been taking long walks. Seeing as you have not mentioned a name of another companion, I believe I can safely assume you have been taking these long ventures on your own. Even the Nanny could put one and one together, dear boy."

Watson straightens the cuffs on his jacket. "Dinner, then," He said casually as he began walking out. "You smell, Holmes. Take a shower." Once it was safe, the Doctor allowed himself the satisfaction of smiling.

Watson tightens his scarf. His leg is beginning to ache so he turns back towards home. The observation is growing old and lately, Watson has been musing over the reasons why he stays. It certainly has nothing to do with hte noises or the smells. It cannot be the fact that Holmes single handedly scares off more of Watson's patients then they can afford to do without. It absolutely is not the fact that living with Holmes is the exact opposte of what the good Doctor was looking for when he came back from Afghanistan; a simple, clean, and quiet apartment.

It cannot be denied that there are more reasons for Watson to move out then to stay at 221b Baker street. It was concern for Holmes that kept him grounded. Mrs. Hudson had no head to deal with the Detective and Watson felt obligated to stay behind and monitor Holmes turning one of his fits. It wasn't far from pity, at first. The dejected sigh that escaped Watson's mouth when Holmes was too stubborn and the Doctor, too tired to pull him out of his slumps.

"Would it kill you to clean this room up, Holmes? You are a grown man for Christ's sake."

"Actually, it very well might." There was an affirmation in his voice that Watson couldn't argue with. "I've forgotten what vials are lying about. I can't imagine what you would do if you had to deal with my body."

Watson didn't know either. His companion's comment managed to keep the Doctor's mouth shut.

Holmes continued. "It's controlled chaos, Watson. Within these thin walls is -"

"Is nothing more than a mess. Trash. You need some kind of order." Watson pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine," he said to no one in particular because Holmes was certainly not listening to him, "fine. Stay. Stay here in your filth. In the darkness. I'm a respectable man, not a damned nanny." He meant it. Watson believed that these were the time he was going to give up on Holmes. Go back to the days when they were nothing more than flatmates.

These moments never lasted long. Watson would return from his walk, a little less irritated to find Holmes in decent clothes (his decent clothes, specifically) almost being kind to the Nanny.

"I was beginning to worry. Watson, these walks at peculiar hours are a bit disturbing. I'm afraid the neighbors may begin talking about your - unusual - habits."

"My-my unusual habits?"

Holmes would turn away from him at these points with _that_ smile on his face, leaving Watson speechless.

Oh yes, Watson thought about moving, indeed. He would leave his belongings if he had to. As long as he no longer had to look at the bags under his companion's eyes. As long as he never had to hear Mrs. Hudson complain about broken doors and flood boards. As long as he never had to see _that_ smile and _those_ eyes and wonder what in God's name was he still doing living in 221b Baker Street.

However, when it comes to accepting a new room or a private lodging, Watson can never bring himself to go through with the deal. He begins to imagine Holmes, sitting in a dark sitting room for weeks. He imagines vapors suffocating his companion and forgotten pistols. He imagines having quiet nights in his own flat. Watson imagines coming home and not seeing Holmes, at all. It's a thought Watson does not think he can deal with.

Watson quietly walks into his home. He is not surprised when he finds Holmes awake, sitting next to one of the large windows in the sitting room. Holmes nods in greeting before packing his pipe. Both men are quiet for a few minutes before Watson speaks.

"Holmes," he begins. He doesn't know what to say.

Holmes sucks on his pipe, slowly pushing it from one side of his mouth to the other. For once, it appears as though the Detective has nothing to say either. Holmes leaves his spot near the window and joins Watson near the coffee table.

"There is tea in the kettle. It's rather cold but suitable enough. As it should be seeing how long it takes our pestering Nanny to brew it."

Watson nods. He wonders if Holmes wants to ask him about his walk. If this is just as tiring on his companion as it is on the Doctor. "The flats were too small." His voice is steady when he says it.

"Of course." The polite reply. "And the tea?"

"Cold," he takes another sip anyway. His gaze is set on the cup in his lap but he knows Holmes is watching him. "Separating our belongings would be such a bother."

"Naturally so. Do try the cookies. I have no stomach for them."

"Moreover, Gladstone is accustomed to this old house. It would be cruel to simply pull him away." Yes, Watson thinks, that sounds fitting enough. Watson stops making excuses. He takes a cookie. The crackling of pipe tobacco is the only noise to accompany his chewing.

Watson doesn't know why he declined the offer to move into the new flat. It was quaint. Quiet and tidy, much to his liking. He leans back in his chair. No, He doesn't think it will ever be clear how he got here. He has given up trying to figure out why he stays. The truth is, it's not something he wants to think about.


End file.
